The Lake District Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (25 page)

If his anticipations were correct, No. 4 was due to call, on the morrow, at one or more of the six tied houses owned by the Bee’s Head Brewery.

After a long phone talk with the Superintendent during the afternoon, instructions had been sent to the coast-guard stations to relax their watch on the ear-marked points along the foreshore. Thompson apologized for the trouble he had caused them, but the smuggling scare had proved to be an error of judgement. The police were now working along different lines.

Early the next morning Meredith set off on the combination for the Lothwaite.

Parking on the roadside about half a mile from the garage, he dismounted, climbed the fence and plunged into the larch wood. He had proceeded only a short distance when Gratorex appeared, coming to meet him.

“All O.K., Constable?”

“Yes, sir. He turned up shortly after midnight. Made three journeys this time, as I explained on the phone this morning.”

“And you got the gadget out of the water soon after he’d made the third journey?”

“Yes, sir. And hid it in some bushes, according to your instructions.”

“Good.”

In ten minutes they had reached the spot where Gratorex had dumped the box-frame and covered it with a mackintosh sheet. Meredith drew aside the sheet, knelt down and closely examined the muslin pocket. Then, with extreme care, he ripped the muslin off the top of the box-frame, bunched the four corners together and tied them with a piece of string.

“Looks like a tea-bag, eh, Gratorex?”

The constable grinned broadly.

“Any luck, sir?”

“Well, the bag doesn’t contain tea, if that’s what you mean! You’d better remove the frame and hide it deeper in the wood. I don’t want to scare the bird away from the net. As soon as Peters turns up, you can go off duty for the day. Return as usual at eleven to-night.”

Holding the bag carefully, Meredith returned through the wood to the point where he had parked the motor-cycle. Then, after he had safely deposited the bag in the side-car, he sped on past the Lothwaite toward Whitehaven.

Mr. Maltman, warned of his approach by phone, was waiting for him in his Turnpike Road office. When he saw Meredith entering with the muslin bag he burst out laughing.

“Strange and wonderful are the ways of the minions of the law!” he exclaimed. “What the deuce have you got there, Inspector? The body in the bag?”

Meredith responded to his amusement with a grin.

“No—not this time. I’m hoping that it contains the confirmation of that theory we were discussing yesterday.”

“You mean—?” Meredith gave a meaning nod.

“Then, for heaven’s sake,” was Maltman’s excited demand, “undo the knot and let’s have a peep. But wait a minute—before you do that, you might tell me where the bag came from and what it’s got to do with the case. No need to keep me in the dark, is there? I mean official caution and all that?”

“Nothing of the kind, Mr. Maltman. I’ll tell you about it now. Do you mind if I smoke a pipe?”

“I’ll join you,” answered Maltman, still curiously eyeing the bag. “Try some of my brand and help the British Empire.”

With both their pipes pulling sweetly, Meredith settled down to recite the history of the muslin bag.

“It’s like this, Mr. Maltman. I explained to you yesterday how we observed that fellow at the Lothwaite garage emptying something into the beck. You remember I asked you what liquid had an odour of baked bread? Your answer more or less satisfied me that I was on the right track. But I wanted to go further than that. I wanted to get absolute proof. In the process we were discussing you pointed out that a considerable sediment would be present in the liquid residue. Well, I set out to get hold of a sample of that sediment. I couldn’t collect it from the bed of the stream, for obvious reasons. For one thing, Wick was emptying the stuff into a ‘devil’s punchbowl’, so that it was impossible to see anything through the water. Secondly, although the hollow bowl caused by the waterfall was nearly four feet deep, the force of the water was so great that any sediment would soon be forced out and dispersed downstream. You follow me?”

“Perfectly.”

“So all I did was to have the ‘punchbowl’ measured up and a box-frame made to fit roughly inside it. I covered the top with this muslin, in such a way that it formed a sort of strainer. I arranged for the top of the box-frame to be about six inches under water. The result of this was that when Wick went to empty his oil-drum last night, he emptied it slap into the muslin sieve.”

Maltman looked at the Inspector with admiration.

“Neat, Mr. Meredith. Very neat. But didn’t Wick notice the gadget?”

“Not a bit of it! The churned-up surface of the pool made it impossible. Remember, there was a twelve foot waterfall above the bowl.”

“And the result?” asked Maltman, whose curiosity had now reached boiling point. “Did you catch any of the sediment?”

“Take a look here,” was Meredith’s answer, as he untied the bag and spread out the muslin square on the carpet. “What do you make of
that
, Mr. Maltman?”

The Excise official dropped on to his hands and knees and began to sniff at the brownish residue, which had collected in a little heap toward the centre of the muslin.

Then he looked up.

“We’re right,” he said shortly. “No mistake about it!”

He gathered some of the sediment into his hand, examined it, then rubbed it over with his fingers.

“If there was any doubt about it yesterday,” he went on impressively, “then this settles it, Inspector. It’s the residue of alcoholic distillation right enough! I’ve seen enough of the stuff in my time to be sure about it. That ‘baked bread’ odour supplied us with a clue, but the nature of the sediment sets the seal on it! If you wanted confirmation of your theory—then you’re quite right. It’s here! Caught in this muslin! If you want a second opinion——?”

Meredith shook his head.

“No need, Mr. Maltman. Your opinion fits in too neatly with the other facts of the case.”

“Which means, Inspector?”

Meredith gave a triumphant chuckle.

“That Mr. Ormsby-Wright and his minions have been caught by the short hairs! That’s my opinion, anyway.” Then: “Illicit stills!” he exclaimed after an electric silence. “Why the devil didn’t I think of it before? But there—that’s always the way. It’s so darned easy to be wise
after
the event!”

CHAPTER XVIII

MEREDITH GOES TO EARTH

M
EREDITH’S
report to Carlisle fetched the Superintendent over to Keswick early the next morning. The new slant on the case needed carefully going into, and the two men settled down to a long discussion of ways and means. Although, as the Superintendent pointed out, they were now in a position to arrest Wick on suspicion of being engaged in illicit spirit-making, it was his idea that the arrest should be postponed. As he put it, “We don’t want to raise a red flag to warn the rest of the gang.” Meredith was of a like opinion.

“We’ve now got undeniable proof of the nature of their racket,” he said, “but I’d like to unearth one of the stills. Once find out where the stills are hidden and we ought to catch ‘em red-handed, sir.”

Thompson nodded.

“Can you tell what spirit they’re making from the nature of the residue?”

“Maltman’s making an analysis of the stuff this morning, sir, and phoning through the result. He has an idea it’s whisky.”

“Then I wonder how the deuce they’re planting the stuff on the public? Any ideas?”

“None, sir. That’s one of the first things we’ve got to find out. And the other problem to be solved is how exactly the lorry picks up the stuff and delivers it at the pubs.”

“Well, we ought to get a line on that. You’ve got those four garages under day and night observation.”

“I think the idea you put up when we were working on the lines of a smuggling racket is the probable one, sir.”

“You mean small kegs? Yes—it strikes me as the only feasible method. Well, Meredith, what’s your next move going to be? The Chief still wants to be posted up to date, so if you’ve got any world-shaking scheme up your sleeve you’d better trot it out.”

“I’m going to make a thorough search of one of the garages,” was Meredith’s prompt answer.

“Can you manage that without giving the game away?”

“Take a look at this, sir,” replied Meredith, handing the Superintendent a copy of the mid-weekly
Cumberland News
. “You see, I’ve blue-pencilled an advert under the ‘Weekly Car Mart’ section.”

“You mean this—‘Second-hand Rover saloon for sale. Good condition. Only done 6,000. Bargain price. Trial run by appointment. Apply Higgins, Derwent Garage, Braithwaite.’”

“That’s it. I’ve rung up a friend of mine in Ambleside and got him to write a letter to say he’s interested in the car. He’s trying to fix an appointment with Higgins for to-morrow afternoon at three. At Ambleside, of course. And as our friend is now running the place single-handed, it looks as if we shall have an hour or two in which to make our search without fear of interruption.”

“Good, Inspector. Well, I won’t keep you longer. I’ve——”

“Just a minute, sir,” interposed Meredith as the phone bell started ringing. “This may be Maltman.” He lifted the receiver. “Yes—speaking... . I see. Very kind of you, Mr. Maltman. No—nothing further at the moment. But I shall probably be worrying you again a little later on. Thanks. Good-bye.” He turned to the Superintendent. “Maltman has made that analysis. It’s just as he thought. Whisky, sir.”

“One more fact in our pocket,” observed the Superintendent, as he made ready to go. “Let me know the result of your investigations at the Derwent. I’ll expect your call about six to-morrow evening.”

More news came in the next day. The constables on night duty at the Filsam and the Stanley Hall both reported suspicious behaviour on the part of the proprietors. In each case the men had been seen crossing to the nearby becks and emptying something into the water. They both thought the men had been carrying large oil-drums, though they wouldn’t swear to this fact.

Meredith was delighted. Here was more incriminating evidence to back up his suspicions. But to balance up his satisfaction came negative reports from the day watchers. Although No. 4 had coupled up with the Filsam, the constable secreted in the barn had seen nothing in the nature of small kegs or casks being loaded on to the lorry. On the other hand, the proprietor—whose name Meredith had discovered was Wilkins—had acted in the same curious way as Wick. On the approach of the lorry he had disappeared into his cottage, emerging some ten minutes later after Prince had coupled up with the pump. He had then signalled with his hand and Prince had, at once, turned off the valve. That this coincidence was significant Meredith no longer doubted. But it was beyond him to find an explanation for the men’s peculiar behaviour.

At twelve-thirty his friend, Mr. Barrow, rang up from Ambleside. It was all fixed up. Higgins had promised to be over at his house at three o’clock that afternoon. A study of his map enabled Meredith to gauge roughly the amount of time he would have at his disposal at the Derwent. He reckoned that Higgins would set out about two-fifteen and return, at the earliest, at four-thirty. After warning Railton to be ready with the combination at one-thirty, Meredith set off for Greystoke Road and an early lunch.

On his way back to the station, however, he was detained by one of those incidents, which trivial in themselves, cannot be ignored by a member of the Force. Rounding the corner of Greystoke Road, he was aware of a sudden shout of alarm, followed by an appalling crash of broken glass. From a side-turning, only a few yards up the street, there debouched a crowd of excited youngsters. The apparent ring-leader of this juvenile gang, intent only on putting as great a distance as possible between himself and the broken glass, rushed straight into the arms of the Inspector.

“Now then, sonny,” said Meredith, shooting out a hand and detaining the lad. “What’s all this about? Throwing stones, eh?”

The boy whimpered out an unconvincing denial and attempted to break away from the Inspector’s grip. As he urged his squirming captive toward the side-turning, Meredith demanded his name.

“Andy Pearson,” snivelled the lad. “An’ it weren’t my fault as it happened. We was only playing gunmen.”

“Gunmen, eh?” Meredith looked into the boy’s face and could scarcely restrain his laughter. The small, pinched features were almost obliterated by a dirty green felt hat pulled well down over one ear. The upper lip was adorned with a false moustache, and round the boy’s neck was suspended a cap-pistol on a long string. Thrust into a leather belt round his waist was a huge wooden knife, the tip of which had been painted a lurid scarlet. This fiercesome get-up contrasted comically with the lad’s obvious timidity at being in the hands of the law.

Meredith, after placating the enraged householder whose window had been broken and taking down the lad’s address, delivered himself of a stern homily. Once freed, the boy departed at great speed, with the Inspector’s threat of a parental retribution hanging over his head. Meredith, who knew Pearson, felt sure that the young culprit would be suitably dealt with at home. Then, annoyed by the delay, he bid the householder good day, and hurried off to the police station.

At Portinscale, Meredith instructed Railton to take the left fork in the village, instead of continuing along the Braithwaite road. About a hundred yards up the turning he signalled the constable to stop. Then, lounging casually against a cottage fence, he waited.

He did not have to wait long. Shortly after two o’clock a blue Rover saloon swung round the bend by the post office and vanished in the direction of Keswick. Quick as its passage had been, Meredith had not failed to recognize the man at the wheel.

“Come on, Railton. Step on it! We can’t afford to waste time!”

The constable dutifully “stepped on it”, and in a few minutes the combination drew up outside the Derwent. A rapid survey of the place left no doubt in the Inspector’s mind that it was deserted. The garage doors were shut and locked and a notice pinned on to them: “Closed until 5 o’clock.”